Just One Box
by Sierra Janeway
Summary: Sherlock tries to deal with a midday distraction and finds himself with more than he bargained for.


_Disclaimer: All original characters and such belong to the BBC._

**Summary: **Sherlock tries to deal with a midday distraction and finds himself with more than he bargained for.

**Chronology: **None specific

**Pairings: **None

**Rating: **K for fluffy randomness

**Author's Note:** I am now also addicted to Sherlock. Darn the BBC and their amazing programming! This is a little oneshot I put together for some light fluffiness ahead of what's sure to be a traumatizing finale later this evening. If Sherlock's a little out of character, it's probably an unconscious attempt to soften the anticipated effects of said finale! Please forgive any slang/cultural errors. I'm still learning. Inspired in part by the fact that it's Girl Scout cookie season and I miss being a Scout. Thanks to Starkreactor to introducing me to Sherlock in the first place! I dedicate this to her.

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><p><strong>Just One Box<strong>

Sherlock Holmes was in the middle of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D major, simultaneously working out how a woman could have faked her alibi in the case of her lover's murder, and utterly oblivious to the world. Until the doorbell began shrieking incessantly.

The noise was jarring enough that he lost his place and scowled at the window. The noise faded away and he placed the bow on the violin's strings and prepared to begin again. But the doorbell started up again. He scowled again and rolled his eyes. John was working on his blog in the next room, saying he was on a writing streak and having asked not to be disturbed. Normally Sherlock had no reason to observe such social niceties, but lately he had been attempting to do so out of respect for his flatmate.

He took the stairs down two at a time, landing heavily on the landing. He yanked the door open and looked down to see a girl standing there. No more than ten years old. Long straight brown hair pulled into pigtails. Clean blue T-shirt with a picture of a whale on the front. Khaki skirt, not jeans. Black flats, synthetic and not real leather. Middle class. Both parents, both working. Opposite schedules by the way she was well groomed—not well-off enough for a nanny. One sibling, likely a brother. Two cats, one tabby and one black. Two cardboard boxes of biscuits in her hands, one chocolate and one vanilla. A paper order form resting on top.

"You're selling biscuits for your school club. Just one box will fund one-sixth of some piece of equipment, etcetera and so forth. No, thank you." Sherlock began to shut the door but the girl stuck her foot on the threshold. He stared at her, startled.

"You could at least let me explain it myself," she said levelly. "Wouldn't kill you to be polite."

"I find it tedious."

"I find this tedious."

He looked at her, almost surprised.

She shrugged. "I have to do it to stay in science club. Anyway, sorry to bother you. I'll let you get back to your violin." She turned to leave.

"You can hear that from the street?' he called after her.

She turned back. "No."

"Then what makes you say that?"

She pointed at him and then gestured at a spot on her own chin and neck. "Red mark. And the callous on your finger." She paused, seeming to take in and process the minimal change in his expression from almost hostile to almost impressed. She took a tentative step back towards the apartment door. "Maybe your doctor friend would want a box?" A hint of a smile crept onto her face.

Sherlock peered at her closely. She didn't look familiar, and she didn't seem to recognize him. She appeared too young to be perusing the internet for anything other than materials for school projects, though in this day and age he couldn't necessarily rule it out. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Brooke."

"And how do you know I have a friend who's a doctor?"

Brooke looked up at him with a mixture of amusement and pride. She pointed at the small bandage on the back of his left hand. "Medical tape. It's not really hard to get, but most people go with regular plasters. You could be the doctor, but you've got scars other places, which means you probably wouldn't be worried about a little cut. That means somebody else probably made you bandage it, and probably somebody who has easy access to medical tape."

He nodded slowly, taking it all in. "Good," he said quietly.

"I get bored sometimes," Brooke explained with a shrug. "I like trying to guess stuff."

John had been saying for the past week that they needed to stop in and have tea with Mrs. Hudson. "Hold on a moment," Sherlock told the girl. "On second thought, I'll take two boxes."


End file.
